Tell me Again the Meaning of Merry Christmas?
by Taste of Cinnamon
Summary: It's Christmas at the Burrow, and it's a bit of a tradition for things to go a little wrong. But is is really fair that just when Ron decides to reveal his feelings for a certain special someone, Hell starts to break loose? A RonHermione fic.


**A/N:**

**This story has been brewing about in my mind in short little unconnected fragments for so long, you couldn't even imagine, and I finally sat down and endeavored to put everything together to form a coherent fic. **

**Problem is, somewhere in the process of writing, I realized that I was on the 7th page (MS. Word, 12 font, Times) and I hadn't even _begun_. Not a good thing to realize when you're aiming for a one-shot. So, since I didn't want to cut it own, and I didn't want to end up with too long of a one-shot, I'm opting to make this a short fic instead, probably around 3-4 chapters. **

**This is the first portion. Let's just see where it goes. :)**

**--- **

**Tell me Again the Meaning of "Merry Christmas"?**

_It Started off so normally,_

_So what the Hell happened?_

_By TasteOfCinnamon_

**Chapter 1: **

"Either you get your finger out of my pudding this instant or I will _find_ something else for you to do."

Begrudgingly, Ron removed the offending digit from the sweet mixture and went about the business of making himself scarce. That Mrs. Weasley would stay true to her word he didn't doubt; he had spent far too many Christmases de-gnoming the garden, acting as an ambassador to the attic ghoul to ask it to please in the name of all that is descended from Merlin to stop its moaning and groaning and general patter for one night, and more recently, aiding Percy in his, and here we quote "increasingly demanding and important duties of the highest order", which mostly entailed typing up some trivial treatise or calling up Mr. and Mrs. Doobury to make sure that they did not still have the talking toilet in their custody.

Given the fact that he was expressly forbidden (having found out the hard way) from telling said older brother to "Bugger off and shove your head in the talking toilet", Ron was finding the latter duty less preferable to even braving the cobweb infested attic to halfheartedly talk sense into something who just moaned and rattled their chains at you most of the time.

It was something that Ron hoped to avoid this particular Christmas Eve, seeing as well, _she_ was due to come over and he didn't want to foul the memory of the day with working for Percy, or other said chores. So far, his day was going according to what he now liked to call the Ron Weasley Christmas Eve tradition, which entailed enduring an especially empty stomach—Mrs. Weasley liked to skimp on the dinners of December 23, saying that the next day's feast would make up for it—and being endlessly tormented with the delicious smells wafting from the (off limits) kitchen.

Honestly, he'd only wanted a taste, as he'd explained as he tried to dodge the spatula that was firmly bent on making contact with his rear, he was a growing teenager who needed his nutrition. But his mother—and her demonic spatula—was merciless.

Ron draped himself down on an armchair and tried to make himself look as hungry and pitiful as possible, letting out a few good moans and clutching his belly for effect.

"Oy, little bro, alright there?"

"We'd thought you'd already gone out of your gender-confused phase."

Ron looked up. "Eh?"

Fred, who'd been passing through grasping one end of the porch bench stopped long enough to whisper in Ron's ear. "Menstrual cramps are only for girls," he said with the tone that he was doing his brother a great favor.

He moved on, and George, who was hanging on to the other end of the bench paused likewise to chime in, "And we've seen you run around in the sprinklers enough to know you don't fit the description."

"Unless you've managed to go through a complete gender transformation these past years," called Fred as the twins continued toward the dining room.

"Which isn't altogether impossible," finished George.

"Or unless you're one of those what d'you call 'ems?"

"A hermaphrodite."

"Which isn't altogether impossible either."

"In which case you'll have to tell us Ron, because we've been wondering—"

"—if it's possible to fertilize yourself and—"

"FRED!"

"Only jesting, mum. Might I say you're looking splendid this afternoon."

"Yes, brother dear, I quite agree. That hair—marvelous."

"Quite—and oh I love what you've done with this gateau."

"Chocolate, vanilla, _and_ strawberry. Why Fred, she's outdone herself!"

"She has indeed! Madam, if I may be so bold—"

Ron instinctively braced himself.

_CRACK!_

"_OUCH!_ Mum!"

_CRACK!_

"OY! What was that for Mum, I hadn't even touched it. You needen't do me as well!"

"Sorry George, force of habit. Now shoo, both of you, or I'll _find_ something for you to do."

Ron chuckled quietly to himself as he listened to the twins set the bench down, muttering about how Mrs. Weasley had "mortally wounded them" and in the process "destroyed all that was good in the world." It was almost worth it, his being hungry every year, just for this.

Just as Ron was beginning to wonder vaguely where everyone was (Christmas Eve at the Weasley's always included at least one pre-festivities squabble, general noise and chaos and, if he was lucky, the bewitching of at least one household object—which more often than not turned out to be one of Percy's undergarments). Not that he was one to judge, but Ron felt that the tame little confrontation between the twins and Mrs. Weasley hardly seemed a fair trade off for enduring the kind of hunger that he was.

Of course, Bill still had some thing at Gringots to take care of involving a garlic induced mass goblin riot, and Charlie was still set to "get there when I get there, Mum, take it easy!" Percy was up in his room working on the aforementioned important ministry duties--having come home with two bulging briefcases full of what Ron suspected was just quills and paperweights—and having slammed the door to his room with an air that said "disturb at your own risk." Hermione wasn't due to arrive for another hour—thank god—and Harry, who had opted to stay at the Burrow rather than with his family, was probably up snogging with Ginny, who—ah wait, here was Ginny now.

She bounded down the stairs two at a time and was on her way to the kitchen before she spotted her brother, still doing his best job of being pitiful.

"Ron—have you seen Fred and George?"

Ron picked at a piece of fluff poking out of the arm rest. "Yeah, they—"

"We're in here!" called George—or was it Fred—from the dining room before Ron could finish, and Ginny skipped off, leaving him quite alone again.

"Stay out of Mum's cooking!" he bellowed at her belatedly just because he wanted something to say, and pulled himself up only to run into Harry at the foot of the stairs.

"Fred and George—" Harry said before Ron could demand where he had been, or why the Hell he wasn't playing exploding snap with him or at least snogging with his sister.

"In here!" came the voice of Fred—or was it George—and Ron was, you guessed it, alone once more. He began to suspect a trend.

"Stay out of Mum's cooking!" he managed to shout again before someone, stupidly, rang the doorbell.

It was a sort of unspoken rule at the Burrow: You don't ever, _ever_ ring the doorbell, unless you're facing certain death, in which case the law may be waived, depending on how convincing your tale is. For one thing, the doorbell had _teeth_, dozens of little sharp ones, and it did not particularly like people; and for another, when rang, it didn't ring, or even _ding dong_. It _shrilled_. And screamed. And caused general havoc.

It's important to note, here, that the owls, talking portraits, and various magical household objects--not to mention the attic ghoul--that dwelt in the burrow did not like general havoc. And their preferred method of expressing their dislike of general havoc was to add _their_ general havoc to the initial general havoc present thereby _increasing_ the level of general havoc disturbing the calm of the house.

For a moment all that could be heard was a loud noise that resembled a siren and the yelping of the poor unfortunate that had broken the unspoken rule. And then all Hell broke loose.

Disgruntled pans and pots clattered, furniture rumbled, owls screeched and hooted, wrinkled old wizards and witches who inhabited upstairs portraits emerged from their annual Christmas Eve baths in towels and soap suds to scream at the general population to "For Merlin's sake, SHUT UP!", and the ghoul moaned all the louder and rattled all the louder.

"Oh bother, Arthur, I've told you and told you to _remove_ that bell!" cried Mrs. Weasley to her husband from the kitchen, where she was doing her best to soothe her cleaning implements.

Mr. Weasley, who'd rushed in the house from the yard (to where Ron suspected he had been banished after he hadn't heeded Mrs. Weasley's "Leave my cake alone or I'll _find _something for you to do) paused long enough to retort: "the damned thing won't let me touch it, Molly, I told you!"

He stumbled into the living room, shot several stun spells in the general vicinity of the sofas and armchairs, and pushed pass Ron to roar up the stairs: "PERCY, TELL THOSE PAINTINGS TO BE QUIET!"

"I'm busy, Dad," Percy's muffled voice sounded back; he seemed altogether unperturbed by the chaos.

"PERCY!"

"These papers need to be in by Tuesday, or I could very well lose my job!"

Mr. Weasley, who looked ready to explode by now, rounded on Ron. "RON!" he said.

"It wasn't me," Ron said by force of habit.

"Get those damned chairs to be quiet and then _answer the door_. Egads, what a mess…" Mr. Weasley said before rushing up the stairs with wand drawn.

Fortunately most of the stun spells seemed to have hit target (one seemed to actually have bounced off a wall and struck the poor misbegotten coat hanger, but Ron rather felt he could take care of that later). He straightened what furniture he could, threatened the more disobedient pieces with "Shut up or I'll tell Mum what you did to her other footstools" and waited until the house was in relative calm before reaching for the door.

It was Hermione. A very disgruntled looking Hermione that was nursing a swollen finger. Ron noted however, with certain satisfaction, that the little silver doorbell was looking a little worse for the wear.

"You're early," he said grumpily by way of greeting.

"And you really need to get that doorbell fixed. You're lucky I know my stun spells."

"It won't let Dad touch it," Ron huffed defensively. "Come in, come in."

And he showed her into the empty sitting room.

She took off her scarf and cloak and moved toward the coat rack. "I hope you know, Ron," Hermione said concernedly "Your coat hanger looks a little sick."

"That would be your fault."

She looked at him in mild surprise. "Mine?"

"You rang the doorbell."

"Oh I'm sorry, Ronald. Forgive me for assuming that doorbells are meant to be rung."

"Just remember it for next time." Ron turned around. "HERMIONE"S HERE!" he called to no one in particular.

"Hello dear!" Mrs. Weasley's voice sounded from the kitchen. "How are you?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow at Ron, who shrugged. "Fine, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you for having me."

"It's no trouble, no trouble at all," called Mr. Weasley from somewhere upstairs. "Glad you could make it."

"Er, I'm sorry about the bell, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. They usually don't screech so."

"No trouble, no trouble at all," Mrs. Weasley repeated. "HARRY, GINNY! HERMIONE'S HERE!"

"We _know_, Mum," Ginny said from within the dining room, "Ron—"

"I did let her in," Ron said irritably.

Hermione looked severely uncomfortable. "Ron, er, is this a bad time?"

'No, of course not. Don't be stupid. Harry—"

"_Coming_, Ron." Harry said as he appeared from the dining room. "Hullo Hermione."

Hermione, who by now was looking quite pale, looked entirely too grateful for the distraction. "Oh _hello_, Harry," she said, and wrapped him in a hug.

"Hey, Hermione!"

"_Ginny_!" It was Ginny's turn to be hugged.

"_Fred!_" said Fred, as he and George stride in.

"And George! (Whom we all know is the more clever and handsome of the twins.)"

They enveloped Hermione in a hug between the two of them, cackling madly.

Oh sure, for _her_ they'll all come running, Ron thought bitterly, just as Ginny, beaming, nudged him with her elbow. "_Ron_," she said pointedly to Hermione.

Ron felt himself flush enough to signal pirate ships and cleverly tried to hide it by suddenly realizing that a lamp was out of place.

Hermione, for her part, emerged from the midst of Fred and George blushing a similar hue. She, however, unlike Ron, managed to keep most of her composure. "Yes," she said in a cool tone that he was immensely envious of, "Hullo, Ron."

There was no hug.

"Ron, you're mutilating that lamp," Harry pointed out.

Ron felt that was a bit unfair on Harry's part, seeing that he was only _partially_ mutilating the lamp, and indeed, the damned thing wasn't even alive, just magicked to act as if it were. Nevertheless, he set it down and gave it an apologetic pat, feeling more of an idiot every moment.

"Let it alone, Harry," he muttered.

There was a moment of silence—awkward for Ron, more than amused for the rest of them, possibly minus Hermione, then Ginny said "Ron painted his room."

Everyone just sort of stood there. "I didn't," Ron said.

"Oh, but you did," Harry chimed in, "just last weekend. I bet Hermione would love to see."

Ron looked at Hermione, who shrugged.

George clapped his hands together smartly.

"Right then," he remarked, "Must finish setting up the dining room—Harry, Ginny!"

And they all turned heel and left, leaving Ron alone _again_.

Save that this time he wasn't completely alone, and Hermione, standing there giving him a look that said "did I miss something?", her cheeks still rosy from the cold outside and her hair falling partially over one shoulder, was the reason of his alone-less-ness.

He blinked. Then blinked again. And stared really hard a stray piece of Ginny's hair littering the carpet.

Which, now that he thought about it, was actually quite gross.

"So," said Hermione, who was bobbing up and down on her toes, "I suppose you want to show me your room."

"I didn't paint it," he said automatically. He had, actually, but he hardly thought a small coat of paint over a chipped area counted.

"Oh. Well then. How've you been, Ron?"

"Er…fine."

"That's good. I've been fine too, if you were wondering. I've been looking at an old elementary spells book from second year, and they haven't taught us _anything._ We glossed completely over the Affalogous charm."

"So I suppose you learned that on your own, then."

"Oh but you know we _can't_. We're still underage, after all. That bit of jinxing I had to do outside your door was only because I was in _danger_. That's why there have been no Ministry owls sent."

Ron, at this point, was thinking of anything but underage wizardry and Ministry owls. Actually, he'd promised himself today would be the day he told Hermione how he felt, and yet, here she stood right in front of him, looking for all the world like she'd rather talk about the Affalogous charm than what he had to say, and he began having second thoughts.

After all, what if he _did_ decide to stop being a no good coward and all she did was stare at him and then continue talking about spells and jinxes? Or what if she told him he was only a friend to her, or laughed at him, or told him something like "Ron, you've got dirt on your nose." He could just imagine it now:

"_Hermione?"_

"Yes, Ronald?"  


"_I-I need to…tell you something."_

"_Yes, Ronald?" (Somehow, here he always imagined her with McGonnagall's glasses and curt expression.)_

"_I…"_

"_Out with it, Ron!"  
_

"…_want you to be my…girlfriend."_

_She would stare at him, then shoot him a pitying look while trying to hide her amused grin. "I'm sorry, Ron," she would say, "But Victor called me just before the break, and…"_

"_I'd like to push Vicky off an iceberg, that's what I'd like to do," Ron muttered vehemently._

"Sorry?"

His gaze snapped up to meet hers. "What?"

"You said something about _Vicky_."

"I didn't."

Hermione exasperatedly brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "You did, Ron, I heard you."

"Heard me what?"

"Oh honestly, Ronald! I heard you say something about _Vicky_."

"Oh, yes. I'd like to push him off an iceberg."

She stared at him. "Victor _Krum_? Why?"

Ron felt his throat tighten and cursed his treacherous tongue, wishing he knew a wandless spell for "Oh Lord Devil, come up from this ground and take me, for there is nothing left for me on this earth."

"Because—"

But he never finished, because at that moment, the lamp that was sitting between them exploded.

---

**Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum.**

**You all know what to do ;)**


End file.
